Cal drummed his fingers. “To tell you the truth, though, I’m not sure it’s working for him. Not anymore.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure why I came here, or what I hoped to get out of this. But I can’t stop thinking about him. I’m not nearly as over it as I should be, considering it was just a one-night stand. And I guess I thought if I learned what it is he’s getting from your guys, maybe I can be what he needs.”
Brandon and Frank exchanged glances. There was no judgement, no “is this guy for real?” in their expressions. If anything, some unspoken thought passed between them. As if they knew each other well enough to share an easy telepathy.
Frank faced Cal again, absently scratching his jaw. “Do you know what kinds of guys he gets from here? Do any of them look familiar?” He made a sweeping gesture at the club.
Cal looked around. “Well, those two.”
Frank nodded. “Tristan and Jared. I see. Anyone else?”
Brandon turned to Frank. “I think I saw him leaving with Sahin once.”
“And there was one he really liked,” Cal said. “Came looking for him again not long ago, but he was gone. Nick, I think?”
Frank nodded again. “Ah. He wants a Dom.”
“A Dom?” Cal swallowed. Bloody hell. What kind of stuff was James getting into here?
“So if I’m understanding you correctly,” Frank said, “you think your boss needs a Dom. And you’d like to learn to be that Dom.”
A shiver ran down Cal’s spine. A Dom. That changed the rules a bit. Explained a lot too. He remembered the way James had begged, and how he’d eagerly sucked Cal’s cock before Cal had even finished giving him the command.
The command. Oh, he did like the sound of that.
He looked Frank in the eye. “Yes. I’d like to learn to be that Dom.”
Frank chuckled. “And you want one of my guys to teach you so your boss doesn’t need to come in and pay my guys—and me—to do it for him?”
Cal’s face burned. “I . . . yeah. I hadn’t thought of it like that, but . . .”
Frank glanced at Brandon again.
Before either of them could say anything, Cal said, “I’ll pay. I’m not looking to take away your business or anything.” Well, except for one client in particular . . .
Smiling, Frank nodded. “It’s all right. I understand. Sounds like this guy is lucky to have you.” He tapped his big fingers on the table. “I think I know someone who can help. If you leave me your name and number, I can have Nick get in contact with you.”
Cal blinked. Nick? Really? “I thought he wasn’t here anymore.”
“He’s not.” Frank waved a hand. “But a situation like this? I think he might be able to help.”
“Oh. Okay. Uh, thanks.” He hesitated. “Except then I’ll be taking your business away and going to someone who doesn’t work here anymore.”
Frank’s smile was gentle and kind. “It’s not something I plan to make a habit of, but Market Garden won’t cave in if it loses one occasional client. And if you learning to help him is best for him in the long run . . .” He half shrugged.
“Thank you,” was all Cal could say.
He gave Frank his name and mobile number, and left Market Garden feeling . . . strange. A little guilty that he was seriously overstepping his bounds. A little optimistic that he might be able to give James what he needed, whatever it was he was getting here. Perhaps more.
And terrified that this was going to blow up in his face.
He did go home with a clearer head, so when he arrived back well before midnight, he settled down with a cup of tea and actually got some writing done. He forced himself to write five hundred words on his thesis, but it started to bore him so he opened another work in progress. This one was a space opera, his “unstucking project,” and he always turned to it when his thesis or the other book stalled and he still had words in him.
Funny how the serious book had twenty-six thousand words, and the space opera was closing in on one hundred twenty thousand, though he’d started on that one much later. He did an easy three thousand words of battle scenes and then shut down his computer for the night.
Before he turned in for bed, he looked outside the window to see if there was any light on in the house, despite the fact that none of the guest rooms faced his way.
He checked his phone: nothing but a text from Aaron, asking him if he was all right. He answered it, giving him the migraine story.
Migraine, and you were driving?
He texted back that it had just been starting when he’d left the club, so he’d been fine to ride.
It really didn’t matter. What was much more important than a wasted opportunity to get rat-arsed was the potential the rest of the weekend held. So he turned in earlyish for bed and woke up around eleven. He keyed himself into the big house half an hour later to put on the coffee—it wasn’t really his job, but James always seemed appreciative—and offer the rentboy a lift back into town.
The rentboy appeared in the kitchen doorway. They didn’t say anything to each other. Just as the silence was getting unbearably awkward, a cab pulled up outside, and the rentboy left. Cal watched him go. At least he was off the hook for driving this one back into the city.
He made a mug of cappuccino and took it upstairs. Outside the bedroom, he paused and knocked.
“Uh, yeah?”
James didn’t sound like he’d woken from sleep.